


If It's Real To You

by grayimperia



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Despair Disease (Dangan Ronpa), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 11:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13006917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayimperia/pseuds/grayimperia
Summary: “Well, if you tell something to a liar,” Ouma says. “That doesn't mean it’s true, does it? You can say anything you want, and it won’t be real.”-A familiar motive spurs a much needed and dreaded conversation.





	If It's Real To You

**Author's Note:**

> Despair disease au. Spoilers up to chapter 3.

It all feels like a dream. From the moment he woke up and heat pooled in his head and behind his eyes, none of it felt real. 

But the purpose of the despair disease, as Monokuma had explained it, was to force a killing by giving everyone a new personality—create a killer out of someone through brute force. 

Ouma thinks it’s a bit silly that whoever is pulling the strings behind their false world would bother with rearranging their personalities a second time. Though, of course, he mostly thinks that if one of his classmates doesn’t snap and kill him, his raging fever might.

Ouma closes his eyes and runs through Monokuma’s announcement of the motive again—trying to find the hidden meaning, the real words, the person he was actually talking to. Or people, Ouma supposes before Momota’s voice cuts into demolish one of his few vaguely coherent trains of thoughts. 

“Sooo,” he drawls. “How’s your fever now?” he leans back in his chair. “Still shitty? Do I need to, uh, give you a new washcloth thing or something yet?”

Ouma huffs. “Momota-chan,” he says, “if you’re only going to ask boring questions, then just don’t talk, okay?”

Momota throws his hands in the air. “The fuck are you mad at me for? I fucking volunteered to take care of your ass.”

“And?” he asks.

“And,” Momota rolls his eyes. “It wouldn’t kill you to not be a complete asshole. Show someone a little fucking respect for once or something.”

Ouma pauses for a moment, staring at the ceiling, wondering just how many times he’ll have to remind Momota how much power he has over him. But Momota remains silent, stewing in his own shallow frustration when Ouma asks, “Is that an order?”

“Uh,” Momota freezes, finally catching himself. “No—shit. Never mind. I fucking,” he waves a hand as if to shoo away his own words. “I take it back or whatever.” 

Ouma keeps staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat rise over him, a reminder that this one maneuver does not mean he’s truly succeeded yet. 

Momota seems to be feeling guilty enough to fall into a shamed silence, and Ouma lets himself close his eyes again, absently thinking that a new, cool, washcloth actually would be pretty nice. Of course, asking for that now would mean saying aloud just how helpless he is.

He watches Momota out of the corner of his eyes, the repetitive rocking motion of him leaning his chair onto its back two legs and down again provides some center of focus in his heat muddled brain. 

Yumeno was sick with the energetic disease while Angie had something that made her cry constantly in spite of her permanent smiles. Ouma looks away to the ceiling still staring down at him. He had assumed Monokuma would try to be cute and give him something like a truth telling disease. An obedience disease is so, so much worse.

-

Subtlety isn’t Momota’s strong suit. Nor are stealth or lying, and his attempts to discreetly pocket some of the medicines lined up next to Ouma’s bedside are pitiful enough that Ouma physically cannot stop himself from commenting. 

“And here I thought you volunteered to take care of me out of the kindness of your heart,” he says. “Honestly, I’m hurt Momota-chan. Lying and stealing from me when I’m sick…”

Momota jerks slightly at his words, shamed at being caught, but still ready to bite back to defend himself. “You—you,” he waves a hand vaguely at the variety of medicines they had blindly pilfered from the warehouse earlier, “you’re fucking rolling in this crap—and we’re not even using half of this shit anyway.”

“Still stealing,” Ouma hums. “And you’re still lying.” He rolls on to his side to face him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sharing your medicine with other kids was bad?”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s for prescriptions, dumbass.”

“So,” Ouma says, not backing down. “Combining eight different painkillers that you stole from someone else is totally okay. Hmm, hmm—makes sense.”

“We got these from the warehouse,” Momota says. “They don’t _belong_ to you.”

“Then why don’t you go take some from the warehouse then?” Ouma asks plainly. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through—using taking care of me as an excuse just to sneak around for something you don’t even need, right?”

They both know the answer, and Momota grits his teeth. “Shut up,” he snaps. “And that is an order.”

Ouma blinks as pointedly as he can at him with his mouth glued shut, and Momota turns away from him, still clutching his stolen pills and the remains of his pride. It’s a pretty one-sided victory, even if Momota still holds all the power. He mumbles, “You can talk again in, like, five minutes or something, I don’t care.”

Ouma just watches him—his slightly crumpled posture, the exhaustion on his face, the way he clutches at his side every so often and how he tersely excuses himself to go to the bathroom to cough and cough and cough. If he weren’t still counting down the minutes, Ouma would say, “I’m glad I have a hero like you looking after me, Momota-chan.”

But he is, and Momota says instead, “it’s not whatever the fuck you’re thinking, and it’s none of your business, either.” But he still feels the need to justify himself. “And I _am_ taking care of you, so there isn’t a problem—nothing’s fucking wrong with what I’m doing,” and he says again, “there’s nothing wrong.”

Words physically cannot form in his throat, so Ouma knows he has more time left. They sit in Momota’s imposed uncomfortable silence—Ouma just watching as Momota glares at the ground.

When his silence finally lifts, Ouma says, “You know one of those medicines you stole was for ear infections.”

“Uh,” Momota turns to rifle through his pockets, pulling out the offending bottle. “Shit.”

“And of the other ones,” he goes on, “only two were for stomach pains. But,” he grins, making his words airy and light. “I don’t think that’ll do much for coughing up blood, Momota-chan.”

Momota clenches his jaw. Then, he shoves his fist back into his pocket, pulling out the extra useless pill bottles to fling them at Ouma. “You know what, fine—keep your fucking ear medicine, see if I care.”

It bounces off of his stomach and rolls slightly on the bed before Ouma picks up the bottle to hold it to his heart. “I’ll treasure it always,” he says as sweetly as he can. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Momota says.

“Is that an order?”

Momota blinks at him openmouthed, before he presses both his hands to his eyes. “No,” he says. “The fuck have I gotten myself into?”

He’s not looking for an answer, and Ouma hums idly in response. “Good question, and also,” he points to the pill bottle still held tightly in his other hand. “Nurse Momota-chan, I have to keep this now until you tell me to stop.”

Momota glances up at him. “Fuck,” he says before extending one hand towards Ouma. “Here, give that to me, and, uh, never call me ‘Nurse Momota-chan’ again.”

Ouma smirks but obeys. “That’s another order, Momota-chan.”

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sticking with it.”

“So what can I call you then?” 

Momota snorts as he pockets the ear medication along with the other bottles jingling together like chimes in his pocket. “Literally anything else.”

Ouma grins wider. “Ooh, so many options, especially since you have such a cute name, Momota-chan.”

“My name is not cute,” he says with a huff. “It’s manly and heroic.”

Ouma laughs, actual joy budding up inside him even as his entire body still feels irradiated with an incessant heat. “I dunno about that, Momo-chan. But it makes sense that you’d have a cute name—everything about you is cute.”

“No,” Momota insists. “I already told you—everything about me is manly and heroic.”

“Is not,” Ouma says.

“Is too,” he says back.

“Is not.”

Momota scowls, the sudden halt in their back and forth causing Ouma to laugh again. “Name one other thing about me that you think is ‘cute,’ and don’t just make something up.”

Ouma’s giggling comes to a sudden halt, and Momota quickly amends, “not an order, but, you know, do it anyway.”

Ouma’s eyes flicker over him, looking too hard for a way to win this match. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says. “Even if it’s all a lie, the way you’re taking care of me is pretty cute, not-Nurse Momo-chan.”

His frown only deepens, his face far too serious for the levity of their game. “There’s a chance you might die from Monokuma’s shitty fever—you really think anything about this is cute?”

“I do,” Ouma says. “But then again, I’ve always been an optimist.” He rolls over back on to his back. “Looking for silver linings and all that.”

“That’s a lie,” Momota says. 

“So it is,” Ouma says. “But one of us is supposed to ramble about belief and staying positive.” He points an accusatory finger at Momota. “And you’ve been falling asleep on the job, Momo-chan.”

Momota rolls his eyes as he bats Ouma’s hand away. “What, you want me to inspire you, then? Even though you always tell me it’s all bullshit or whatever?”

“It is all bullshit,” Ouma says. “But it’s what you do.” He lolls his head to the side to look at him again. “And you’re not doing it.”

“‘Cause I know you’re just gonna call me an idiot,” he answers.

“And that would stop you?” Ouma asks. Momota doesn’t respond, and Ouma smiles softly at him. “I never knew you cared so much about what I think of you—it’s pretty cute, Momo-chan.”

Momota crosses his arms, hunching in on himself and glaring hard at the space just above Ouma’s head. “Don’t call me that,” he says. 

Ouma hums as he turns back to the ceiling, letting his eyes falls closed. “Orders are orders.”

-

Kiibo was the most logical choice to be the liaison between the quarantined rooms and the others currently holed up together at the school, trying to piece together some way out of the puzzle Monokuma had given them without a murder. Even with his thoughts melting together, Ouma thinks, too—he’s too vulnerable right now not to, and his only line of defense is busy in the bathroom, coughing up blood into the sink when Kiibo politely rings the doorbell. 

Ouma doesn’t bother to move his head, but his eyes track to the door. He hopes it’s Kiibo, at least, and not someone tired of thinking and ready to order him to end his own life. He hears Momota’s curses carry out of the bathroom at the intrusion before yelling out, “I’ll fucking—just give me a minute.”

The door goes quiet, and that alone is enough of a signal to Ouma that it’s someone with business other than killing him. Still, as the sound of the bathroom sink turns on to wash away the evidence, Ouma lets his eyes flicker over the door and his thoughts over how hard Momota would actually fight if it wasn’t Kiibo outside.

But it is, and Ouma isn’t sure whether it’s a good or bad thing that he doesn’t have to learn that truth. 

Momota takes a moment before answering the door to catch his breath and compose himself into what has become his carefully calculated casualness. He opens the door, and Kiibo stands dutifully on the other side, both of them calm and unaware of the infinite dangers swimming in and out of Ouma’s head.

Kiibo says, “Hello, Momota-kun, I just finished checking up on Chabashira-san and wanted to see if things are under control here, too. I am also sorry if I interrupted you caring for Ouma-kun.”

“Huh?” Momota says. “Oh, what? Uh, don’t worry about it, man—Ouma’s fine.” He turns to look back at him for confirmation. “Right, Oum—”

“Momota-chan’s made three attempts on my life already,” Ouma says, sighing dramatically as he rolls on to his side. “Of course, a robot like Kiiboy probably doesn’t care about leaving me alone with a murderer…”

Kiibo frowns, glancing between them. “I find that difficult to believe. I suppose it would be logical to ask you to tell the truth, but given our current situation… I believe such a thing would be considered immoral.”

“Yeah!” Ouma says. “Tell that to Momota-chan, Kiiboy! He keeps ordering me around!”

“Oh, shut up,” Momota says, rolling his eyes. “I have not—tell him the fucking truth.”

Ouma pauses to simply smile wryly at Momota for a moment before holding up two fingers.

Momota furrows his brow. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Kiibo says. “I believe it might be to indicate that you just—”

“Shit,” he says. “Ouma, just—forget I said anything.”

Ouma blinks once, twice, and narrows his eyes, quickly moving to study both of them still framed in the door.

Momota frowns. “Something wrong?”

Ouma scowls, something genuine creeping into his expression before he rolls back over and pulls his blanket over his head.

“Ah, Momota-kun,” Kiibo says. “I believe you may have ordered Ouma-kun again.” 

The gears turn in Momota’s head as he curses. Kiibo says, “If you require any assistance in caring for him, I would be willing to help before returning to the others.”

Momota runs a hand through his hair. Kiibo’s offer is tempting, but the pain still lodged in his stomach makes the pills in his pocket even more tempting. “No, I’ve got it—just need to… fucking think before I speak.” He laughs and gives Kiibo a reassuring smile and reason to not ask questions. “Chabashira and Harumaki and all the others have been telling me I need to do that anyway. So don’t worry,” he cranks up his smile and gives him a thumbs up. “This challenge is nothing to a guy like me.”

Kiibo’s eyes remain fixated on Ouma’s unmoving form under the blanket even as he says, “If you say so. I will report back to the others then.”

Kiibo leaves, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving them to their own pocket of non-reality again. 

Momota lets out a sigh and stomps halfway back to the bathroom before stopping. Ouma hasn’t moved, and Momota feels guilty enough that he collapses back into the chair pulled up to his bedside. He wasn’t expecting a response, but he still says, “I didn’t fucking say anything important. Just—I don’t know—me fucking up again and telling you to do shit.”

Ouma remains silent, and Momota allows himself to slump back in his chair and let his eyes drift to study the ceiling. He reaches for one of the bottles in his pocket to absently pull it open, saying, “Kiibo’s gonna tell Harumaki and Shuuichi and the others that I’m fucking up, and then they’ll probably show up to check on you, too.” He sighs again. “Hell, wouldn’t be fucking surprised if they’re worried I’m gonna end up accidentally kill you or something.” 

He’s in the middle of pouring out a few pills into his hand when Ouma says, “Don’t lie to me.” He doesn’t move, and his words come out slightly muffled from underneath the blankets. “And that is an order, Momota-chan.”

Momota stares at him for a moment before letting out a low laugh. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this pissed off before.” He resettles in the chair, able to feel a little less guilt when Ouma’s firing back at him. “Isn’t part of your whole ‘I’m a liar’ crap being good at hiding what you really think?”

Ouma shrugs. “What can I say,” he says, voice barely rising to Momota’s ears. “Guess I just can’t compete with you.”

Momota’s first instinct would be to jump to his feet and yell down at him about how wrong he is—about how he has to be lying about his lying. But at the moment, his stomach hurts too much, and he swallows the pills in his hand down with any defenses he could think up. 

He isn’t there to fight against Ouma. He isn’t there to fight at all.

-

Between the two of them, it turns out that even with Ouma’s almost constant stream of chatter on most days, Momota’s the one who suffers more from the silence. He fidgets in the bathroom, he fidgets in the chair at Ouma’s bedside, he fidgets as he paces the room, muttering to himself all the while about how it’s too cramped or too stuffy and how someone like him belongs outside in the real world with the open sky above them.

Ouma watches him dully. Even if he played with his memories on accident, Ouma finds that part of him is still vindictively content to watch Momota squirm—perhaps he can get some vengeance on someone for rooting around in his head. 

But while Momota seems frustrated, he also mostly just seems bored, and Ouma can’t resist saying so. “Momota-chan,” he says, his voice causing him to jump. “If you really want me to play with you, all you have to do is ask. Or order me, I suppose.”

“I don’t feel like playing games,” he says with a frown.

“So you feel like pacing instead?” Ouma says. “That game doesn’t seem like any fun to me, but I guess boring people would like boring games.”

Momota throws his hands in the air. “Okay—does the word ‘boring’ actually mean anything to you? ‘Cause you literally fucking call everything ‘boring.’”

“That’s not true,” he says, clicking his tongue. “I don’t call fun things boring.”

He snorts. “And what’s fun to you? Tormenting me? Acting like a smartass?”

“Fun… sometimes those are fun,” Ouma hums. “Things that are unpredictable are usually fun, which means that you’re usually not fun.”

Momota settles back into the chair next to him, crossing his arms. “That’s a fucked up way to judge people—what are we all just here to entertain you? That all you care about?”

“No,” he says. “But I knew you’d see it like that, which is why you’re boring.”

“And if I went along with everything you said I wouldn’t be?”

“No,” Ouma says. “But, geeze, Momota-chan, everything’s so black and white with you. There’re good guys and bad guys, truth and lies, people you believe in and people you don’t.” He glances back to him. “That’s why you’re boring.”

Momota, for his part, doesn’t seem ruffled by his words. “Don’t know what the hell you want me to tell you—a man’s gotta have his worldview. We’re just gonna have to agree to disagree since I’m not gonna pretend I know what the hell you went through to make you this way.” He rolls his shoulders and speaks so casually as he says, “had to be something fucked up though.”

Ouma blinks slowly. He could respond in so many ways, but instead he only says, “Momota-chan, I’m thirsty—get me more water.”

Momota gets up without protest, simply saying, “yeah, yeah, could say ‘please’ or some shit, you know.”

He heads to the bathroom, and Ouma calls after him, “I could, but I wasn’t made that way.”

He hears Momota snort over the sound of running water. “So I’m just gonna have to deal with you being an asshole?” He returns and hands over the glass of water with a shake of his head as Ouma sits up to take it. “Guessing you’re not gonna say ‘thank you’ either.”

“No,” Ouma says before smirking at him. “But you could always make me.”

Momota narrows his eyes. “I already said I’m not playing games with you.”

“You did,” he says. “But that’s okay. You seem pretty busy playing games with yourself—things might actually be a little less boring if you got someone else involved.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Momota growls. “I’m not doing shit.”

“You’re right,” Ouma says. “You’re really not.” 

And he takes a long drink from his water as Momota scowls again. “The fuck are you like this?”

He swirls the water in his glass. “You know, Momota-chan, I have to give it to you—if you were asking honestly, that’s actually not the most boring question. But you don’t like honesty—”

“Shut up,” Momota snaps. “I mean, don’t but—” he shakes his head in frustration. “I already said I’m not a fucking liar—I’m not like you.”

“No, I guess you’re not,” Ouma hums, holding up the glass to examine the distorted reality through it. “But you could have been, and I could have been Momota-chan and I could be the one lying to you.”

Momota simply raises his eyebrows at him, more perplexed than anything else. “Dude, I think you’re losing it. Take a nap or something.”

Ouma feels his eyelids start to get heavier, and he mumbles, “is that an order?” as he feels his grip on the glass start to slip.

Momota’s too busy scrambling to grab the glass to respond, and Ouma falls asleep. 

-

Ouma remembers hovering over Saihara after he fainted only a few days ago. He had simply waited near him, ready for the moments when Saihara would begin to stir so he could surprise him when he woke up. He hadn’t touched him or interfered—he had waited for his fun to come to him. 

His body feels even hotter now, and the slightly damp hand shaking his shoulder feels something close to nice. The one pressing against his forehead feels too intimate and too invasive, and even as Ouma blinks his eyes open at the sounds of someone quite desperately asking him to wake up, his first instinct is to swat it away or bite it or lash out like a cornered animal.

Ouma ends up grumbling something that doesn’t even sound like words to himself, and Momota easily bats way his protesting hands, mumbling with too much concern, “Holy shit, you are fucking burning up.”

Ouma continues to tug at his wrist. Telling him to stop touching him outright would attract too much attention and far too much sympathy. “Momota-chan,” he whines. “If you keep touching me, you’re gonna catch my gross despair disease and then _Kiiboy_ will have to take care of both of us.”

“I don’t care,” Momota says, even as he finally removes his hand from Ouma’s forehead to fish a few of the pill bottles out of his pocket to examine them. “Fuck, man, why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

Ouma doesn’t say anything until Momota shoves a few of the pills from the same bottle he had used earlier at him. He takes them, turning the small capsules over in his hand and says, “Didn’t I tell you it’s bad to share prescriptions?”

“I don’t fucking care,” Momota says again. “Just let me help you.”

His hands are already moving automatically as Ouma says, “take that back.”

Momota’s eyes light up in realization. Then, they give way to a hard stare, and he remains silent as Ouma takes his medicine and drinks water and settles back into his bed, not bothering to hide the fury in his movements. 

In all the battles between them, this is one Ouma can’t allow himself to lose. And he lashes out, “Momota-chan, if you don’t take that back right now, I’m going to lick you and infect you and make you even sicker.”

“And I told you,” he says. “I don’t care.”

“Really?” Ouma asks, making his face twist into something cruel. “Because if you catch the despair disease and someone has to take care of you, they might figure out you’re sick with something else.”

Momota stiffens for a second before shaking his head. “No, that’s not gonna happen.”

Ouma smiles. “So you’ll take it back then?”

“No,” he says. “I’m not because I’m not gonna catch the fucking despair disease, and that’s all there is to it.”

Ouma hesitates for one tense second before reaching forward to grab one of Momota’s hands and bring it to his mouth to lick the back of it. 

“What the fuck!?” Momota shouts, reeling back at the gesture. “You—what the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Ouma only sticks his tongue out at him. “I told you I would lick you, and I’ll do it again if you don’t take it back.”

“Ugh,” he simply groans inspecting his licked hand. “Fuck—fine. You don’t have to let me help you, you little brat.” He keeps frowning as he says. “You know you could have just been normal about it, right? Some people actually like having people watch out for them and crap.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But no one in this room does, so that doesn’t matter.”

Momota finally looks up from his hand with a sigh, wiping it on some of Ouma’s blankets. “Alright, fine, whatever—maybe I don’t want people taking care of me and shit, but that’s just not what a man does, you know? I help people—”

“And they don’t help you,” Ouma finishes. “That’s not really a groundbreaking revelation, though, Momota-chan.”

“No,” Momota says, furrowing his brow. “Guess it’s not. Don’t know what you want me to tell you, though.”

Ouma thinks for a second. Then, “How about a thought experiment, Momota-chan—you’re sick with Monokuma’s boring despair disease and have to do whatever I say, and I say I want to help you—what do you do?”

“I don’t fucking lick you,” Momota says, rolling his eyes. “And I tell you I can take of my goddamn self.”

Ouma nods and holds up two fingers. “Okay, thought experiment part two—I am literally anyone else in the school. Do you try and help me?”

“Yeah,” he says, finally content with the amount of spit removed from his hand. “Is there a part three to this game or is that it?”

“Only the part where you realize you’re a hypocrite,” Ouma says, settling back into his pillows. “But I guess that can come later.”

Momota looks at him, looks back to his hand still resting on the edge of Ouma’s bed and lets out a sigh. “It’s not just a pride thing, okay? People are depending on me and shit—telling them that I’m sick or that I need help’ll only make things worse.”

“I see,” Ouma hums. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised—I never thought I’d hear the great Momota-chan actually recognize that he isn’t invincible.”

“It’s not about being invincible or weak or,” he waves his hands vaguely. “Or ‘boring’ or ‘fun,’ or whatever the hell else you judge people by. It’s just about…” he sighs as he leans back into his chair. “Not dragging other people down with shit they can’t do anything about.”

“Makes sense,” Ouma says. “Also, maybe it’s the fever talking, but you do seem a little less boring now, Momota-chan.”

Momota rolls his eyes. “Glad I earned your approval.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But, fuck, I haven’t told anyone this, but here I am spilling my guts to you. What am I even doing…”

“You’re talking,” Ouma says. 

“Well, obvious—”

“You’re talking because you’re talking to me,” Ouma says. “Because if you tell something to a liar, that doesn't mean it’s true, does it? You can say anything you want, and it won’t be real.” He hums to himself as a real exhaustion settles over him. “Truth and lies—black and white. But since it’s me,” he blinks up at him. “You can get help without being helped and let your guard down without being vulnerable.”

Momota doesn’t leave his chair but goes quiet. Ouma expected either that response or a bout of angry yelling, but he idly supposes he couldn’t really judge either reaction too harshly. He’s had more than enough experience of feeling someone trying to tear at his walls and drag the ‘real’ him out into the light. 

Momota isn’t looking at him or anything in particular as far as Ouma can tell, and for all of the power Momota has over him, Ouma can only suppress his empathy so much. He smiles to paint himself as the villain and give the hero more than enough of an excuse to build his walls back up. “Aw, don’t get quiet on me now, Momota-chan. I was having fun playing with you. Here—you can pick the next game.”

He stays quiet, prompting Ouma to say, “Or I can choose that, to—”

“Why do you care so much?” Momota asks. 

“Hmm?”

“You give me the silent treatment, say I’m boring, throw a fucking tantrum when I try and actually take care of you like I volunteered to do,” he lists off. “And through all of that, you try and push me to have some fucking emotional epiphany about myself.” He leans forward. “So that’s my game—why in the hell do you care if I’m honest with myself or not?”

Ouma pauses for a moment before his lips quirk up into a small smile. “Wow, I was right—you do ask not boring questions sometimes. And I suppose I can give you an answer for taking such good care of me, not-Nurse Momota-chan.”

“And that answer is?” 

“I just don’t think it’s good to lie to yourself, that’s all,” Ouma says. 

“That’s it?” Momota says, raising an eyebrow. 

“That’s it.”

Momota frowns and gazes at him searchingly before finally saying, “Tell the truth.”

Ouma lets out a small, breathy laugh. “You don’t know how long I was waiting for you to pull that card, but have it your way.” He turns to him, half wondering himself what’s going to come out of his mouth. “The more you trick yourself into believing a lie, the more the truth will hurt, so I guess,” he feels his own confusion in his words even as his body compels them out of him. “I wanted to soften that blow a little.”

“By being my weird, fucked up confidant?” Momota asks suddenly looking very tired himself.

And it’s genuine curiosity propelling him forward into his next question. “Would you confide in anyone else?” 

Momota lets out a similar, shaky laugh to the one Ouma gave only moments earlier. “No—then I’d actually have to do shit about it. But you’re just gonna let me keep going, aren’t you?”

Ouma shrugs. “I will if you order me to.”

“That’s not an answer,” he says and reaches one hand towards Ouma. “So here’s what we’re gonna happen. This shitty motive’s gonna end, you’re gonna get better, and I’m not gonna tell you to forget.”

Ouma regards him suspiciously. “That’s not much of a plan, Momota-chan. You know I could just run up to all the others and tell them everything that happened. I mean, they probably won’t believe me, but I still could.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Momota says. “Because right now you’re still fucking sick, so you’re gonna take my damn hand and do whatever the hell you think is the right thing.”

Ouma furrows his brow as his hand moves automatically to clasp Momota’s. 

He isn’t sure what the gesture symbolizes to Momota—likely something about truth or promises or an agreement between men—something he would call stupid. He isn’t sure what the right thing is to Momota or to him either. But for the moment, this war ends in a truce as Momota’s cool hand grips his and holds on for a second too long for Ouma to dismiss it as a lie. 

Real sleep takes him, and when his fever abates, they both enter the real world again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm afraid I'm still busy with finals (though almost done!) so I wasn't able to sit down and finish the next chapter of my rewrite, but I did want to get something out this week, and, well, I've been thinking about this for a while, haha. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!


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